


Some Days You're the Bug

by Jo (jmathieson)



Series: Tangents and Intersections ~ Kink Bingo 2013 [53]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Clint Needs a Hug, Community: kink_bingo, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/pseuds/Jo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint helps Phil out with some SHIELD training and regrets it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Days You're the Bug

**Author's Note:**

> Kink Bingo Round Six (2013) ~ Verbal Humiliation

"I need you to do this, Agent Coulson."

"And I would, happily sir, if I had the time, but..."

"No buts, Phil. Peterson is still on medical leave, Sitwell covered for him last month, and Rodrigez was supposed to fill in today but she called in sick this morning, so it's you. It's only an hour out of your morning."

"Yes, sir. Who's with me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Who are you assigning to do the job with me?"

"Oh, just use anyone you need. Grab Barton if you want to."

Phil's lips flattened in a line, he wasn't looking forward to pulling someone else from their regular duties at such short notice, so Clint probably was the best choice, but he wasn't at all happy about it, and he knew Clint wouldn't be either. He turned around and headed back into his office to dig his well-worn copy of the SHIELD training manual from the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. 

"Could you page Specialist Barton for me, and ask him to report to my office," Phil said to his admin before he closed his office door.

When Clint sauntered in ten minutes later, Phil was wearing his reading glasses and had his nose deep in the training manual.

"You wanted to see me boss?" Clint said, grinning widely at Phil when he looked up. Phil smiled back.

"I need your help with something, Clint."

"Anything, Phil. You know that."

"Well, this isn't something I'd usually ask of you, but I got stuck with it by Director Fury at the last minute. I need to deliver some training to the newer handlers, and I need someone to help me with the role-play part of the class."

"Sure. Why not?"

"Really, you don't mind? Thanks Clint, I appreciate it. I'll be demonstrating both the right way and the wrong way to give feedback to an asset. All I need you to do is act the way you normally would if I called you into my office to talk about how a mission went."

"Sounds easy enough."

~~~~~

Clint was sitting in the back of the classroom letting Coulson's voice wash over him. The first part of the class was about scheduling leave, performance reviews, pay rises, and a bunch of other boring bureaucratic stuff. By the time Coulson called on his to help with his part, he was almost asleep, and it probably showed in the way he sat down blearily on the chair next to the desk that Coulson had set up at the front of the room.

"Barton," Phil said without pre-amble, "I have a report from the range-master that you've been using more than your allocated share of ammunition and range time for practice again."

Phil fixed him with a disapproving stare. Clint didn't know if he was supposed to say anything, but Phil had told him to act the way he normally would, so he opened his mouth to make an excuse.

"Umm..."

"I'm not interested in hearing it, Barton. Ammunition, range time, and those fancy trick arrows you're so fond of cost a considerable amount of money, not to mention time and man-power. SHIELD's assets are not inexhaustible, nor are they there for your amusement. Is that understood?"

"Uh. Yes?"

"Good. Next. I have a report here from Agent Henderson about your behaviour on his last mission. How many times have I warned you about chatter on the comms during a mission, Barton?" 

"Lots." Clint was starting to feel miserable. Not to mention shell-shocked. He knew that this was just an exercise, but did Phil really need to rip into him like this for a demonstration? In front of all the new handlers? It was humiliating.

"Lots is right. It has to stop, Barton. I know you think you're a funny guy, but I think you're a wise-ass, and you need to grow up and learn how to be a professional on missions. Now, about this after-mission report."

Clint felt sick to his stomach. 'It's just an exercise,' he said to himself. 'Phil's just doing a demonstration. He's not really talking about you.' That was the problem, though, Phil was talking about him. About things he did. About ways in which he didn't quite measure up. Clint was reminded of his first months at SHIELD, when he had had so much trouble working with other handlers, before he was assigned to Coulson. These were exactly the kinds of things that had been said to him. And they were true. Phil just... didn't mind them. Phil... let him get away with it. 

"I can't read this chicken-scratch, Barton. You're going to have to learn better penmanship. And is this a ketchup stain in the corner?"

Some of the new agents sitting in the classroom laughed.

"Try to find somewhere other than the commissary to write your reports. You'll need to re-do this one completely, and I need it on my desk by oh-nine-hundred tomorrow."

Clint could only nod dumbly.

"Dismissed."

Clint sat there for a second like a deer caught in headlights, and then slowly got to his feet. As he turned to walk back to his seat at the back of the classroom, Phil said,

"Oh, good work on the job in Baltimore, by the way."

Clint barely heard him. He sank into his chair at the back of the room and shook his head, trying to clear the fog. He could hear Phil asking questions and getting answers. He still felt slightly sick. He wondered if he could use that as an excuse to leave. But Phil still needed him for the second half of the demonstration. He didn't know if he could go through with it. Maybe there would be a break and he could speak to Phil privately for a couple of minutes to tell him... tell him what? That he couldn't stand to hear the truth about himself? That he was grateful to Phil for going so easy on him all these years?

The discussion was winding down, and Phil called him up again. Clint got to his feet and walked up to the front of the classroom with dread. This time, Phil greeted him with a friendly smile and a handshake, which Clint had to force himself not to cling to.

"Thanks for coming Barton. How are you doing?"

"Uh, fine."

"Good, glad to hear it. Pity about the Mets, I really thought they had a chance this year."

Clint blinked. Why was Phil suddenly talking about baseball? 

"Uh, yeah."

"So, just a couple of things to discuss today."

'Uh-oh, here it comes.' Clint tried to brace himself.

"First, absolutely excellent work in Baltimore, as always."

"Thanks?"

"The shot you made was spectacular, of course, and your help with the inventory was very much appreciated."

"Uh, no problem. Just doing my job."

"Doing it extremely well. Henderson also asked me to mention that he was impressed with your work on last week's mission as well."

"He was?" Clint was confused.

"He said you were really helpful in keeping everyone's spirits up when the surveillance team had to work overnight in the pouring rain."

Clint didn't know what to say to that so he tried a smile. He got a warm smile back from Phil, and his stomach unclenched a little.

"There's one small problem I was hoping you could help me with."

"Um... sure?"

"As you know, I'm no spring chicken any more, and even with these," Phil touched the rim of his reading glasses, "I'm having a little trouble making out parts of your reports sometimes."

"Sorry, I know my handwriting is pretty bad."

"I've seen much worse, believe me. What do you think of the idea of submitting your reports in electronic format, instead?"

"Um... I'm not too good with computers."

"But you know how to access the forms, and your emails are always perfectly clear."

"Uh, yeah. I just... I don't type very well."

"Ah, well, that's easy to fix. We can arrange a typing class for you, or there's instructional software, if you'd prefer to work on your own. With your reflexes and physical coordination, I'm sure you could learn in no time."

"I guess so..."

"I don't want to pressure you. If you'd rather keep writing your reports by hand, that's fine too, just try to make them a little clearer."

"Well, I want you to be able to read them..."

"No need to decide right now, think about the typing class, and let me know. Or, if you come up with another solution, I'd be happy to hear it."

"Uh, yeah. OK."

"Great. Well, I think that's everything. As always, if you have any issues or concerns, please don't hesitate to bring them to me. My door is always open for you." Phil smiled another warm smile at him.

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Have a good afternoon, Specialist."

Clint realized he was being dismissed and stood.

"Um, yeah, you too."

He walked back to the back of the room and sat down. The class launched into an animated discussion about the demonstration, the sounds of which washed over Clint as he sat, waiting for his heart rate to come back down. He couldn't wait for the class to be over so that he could talk to Phil. Just to... check. To make sure that Phil hadn't been going easy on him. To find out how big of a problem his handwriting actually was, and... 

Clint remembered being in the fourth grade in some run-down school in a bad neighborhood with an elderly teacher and 30 other kids, all of whom knew each other and not one of whom had even glanced in his direction during recess on his first day in his new school. The teacher had handed back a spelling test, and his paper had had a big red line through the whole thing. She had written "I can't read this," in block capitals across the top. 

Chairs scraped and people started to move. Clint wanted to wait for Phil, but he didn't want to have to talk to anybody else. He hovered, undecided by the door, but when he saw two of the new handlers waylay Phil to ask more questions, Clint decided to wait for Phil in his office, instead. He headed out of the room and turned a corner. He heard voices and laughter coming out of the classroom, and caught the words "ketchup stains," and more laughter. Without thinking about it, Clint sprinted ten feet down the empty hallway and pulled himself into the nearest ceiling vent. Once there, he scrambled as quickly and as quietly as he could, heading deep into the bowels of the SHIELD offices, trying to put as much distance between himself and the laughter as he could.

He hadn't been up in the vents in ages. It was yet another thing that reminded him of the 'bad old days' before he felt accepted and secure at SHIELD, when he used to spy on people to find out what was really going on in this shadowy organization he'd suddenly found himself beholden to. After a while, he stopped moving. His instinct had brought him to a spot that he used to use often, above some storage rooms, quiet and away from the sounds of people. He could hear the hum of machinery in the server rooms across the hall, but below him were just rows and rows of shelves and stacks of crates. He made his way to a corner that he used to stash supplies in, and found a bottle of Gatorade. He looked at it. 'Must be at least five years old, but it's probably got enough chemicals in it to still be good.' The sweet, warm, blue liquid helped him calm down a little.

'Gotta figure out what to do,' he thought, when all he really wanted was to curl up and hide. 'Maybe I should just go home and wait for Phil.' But it wasn't even lunchtime, what would he do all afternoon at home, alone, wondering, worrying... 'And besides, Phil will worry. I'd have to tell him I'm not feeling well, which is true, but...' Did Clint really want to admit that he was so shaken by a little demonstration that he'd needed to go home sick? He didn't really need to, he just wanted to. Wanted the security of feeling like he belonged. Like he was important and valuable, and... and Phil made him feel like that. Always. Until this afternoon in that class, when he pointed out all of Clint's failings in front of a group of brand new SHIELD handlers...

Clint felt humiliated. And angry. And scared. But he wasn't sure he was ready to crawl back to Phil so that Phil could make it better. Maybe he should be dealing with this on his own. Like an adult rather than like a scared kid, hiding up in the vents. He made a decision. He'd go to the range and shoot for an hour. Then if he still felt bad about what had happened, he'd go find Phil and talk to him about it. That seemed like an adult way to handle it. 

As always, while he was shooting everything was fine. He focused on the target and on the gun or bow in his hands, he lined up each shot, controlled his breathing, stilled his mind. As he changed magazines or weapons or targets or went to collect his spent arrows, however, everything came rushing back, including the sick feeling in his stomach. 'What if Phil had been wanting to say some of that stuff for years, and this gave him the opportunity?' Clint wondered. He needed to know. He hit the locker room and showered carefully. He put on the nicest, cleanest clothes that he could find in his locker. He even combed his hair. He considered going out to a bakery nearby and buying Phil one of his favourite pastries, but it was only one o'clock in the afternoon. Phil had probably just eaten lunch and wasn't hungry. Clint squared his shoulders and headed for Phil's office.

Once there he hesitated. Since they'd been together, Clint had gotten into the habit of just walking into Phil's office without knocking. He knew Phil would lock the door if he was in an eyes-only meeting, but Clint didn't want to walk in to find him chatting with Sitwell or someone. Phil's section admin was nowhere to be seen.

Clint stepped up to the door and knocked.

"Come in," Phil called, and Clint couldn't hear if there was anyone else in there with him.

Clint opened the door, prepared to make an excuse and come back later if Phil was with someone, but when he opened the door, Phil was by himself, looking up from his desk with surprise.

"Clint! There you are! I wondered where you'd disappeared to."

"Yeah, well, I... uh..." Clint didn't want to admit that he'd crawled into the vents and then spent an hour on the range to try to deal with his feelings.

"Clint, is something wrong? Are you OK?"

"I... uh... no. Not really." Clint realized that that wasn't a very useful answer, but Phil understood and was coming around his desk and wrapping Clint in his arms. 

Clint slipped his arms under Phil's suit jacket and held on tight, not able to say anything yet, not ready to explain, just needing the security of knowing that he was loved and accepted and getting both from the strong solid arms around him and the comforting familiar embrace. Phil held him, and waited. 

"Did you have to say stuff that was true?" 

"What do you mean?" Phil wasn't sure he understood Clint's question.

"I mean, I know it was just a... a demonstration... but the stuff you said... it was all stuff that... that I really do." Clint fought to keep his voice from cracking as he spoke. "I can learn to type if you want me to. You could have said something."

"Oh, Clint. I'm sorry. I didn't realize you would... I didn't realize that it would bother you so much. I was rushing to check the course material, to make sure I knew what to cover. I didn't have time to invent issues to discuss with you. I didn't think. I'm so sorry." Phil rubbed his back. Clint felt like an idiot for letting it get to him. Of course Phil had just said whatever he could think of when he hadn't been given any time to prepare... but...

"It's... I..." Clint tried to say, 'It's OK,' because that's what you were supposed to say when someone apologized. But the words stuck in his throat. It wasn't OK. He still felt like shit. He needed to try to explain.

"It's just that it reminded me of when I first started, before you became my handler. I felt so stupid, so useless a lot of the time. Everyone else knew all this stuff and I was just a guy who could shoot straight. Nobody really knew what to do with me, and I figured eventually someone would figure out that they didn't really need me after all, and..." Clint decided to shut up before he started telling Phil about the fourth-grade spelling test. "I know it's stupid," he finished lamely.

"It's not stupid. I blindsided you. I should have made sure you knew what I was going to say, and made sure you were OK with it. It's my fault, Clint. I'm sorry."

"But I should be able to take a little criticism without falling to pieces. Especially when I knew damn well it was just play acting."

"Clint, that wasn't a little criticism. It was a textbook demonstration of 'how to make your asset feel like shit.' If we were at home, and it was something ah... bedroom-related. Would you have called safeword?"

"Yes," Clint said firmly.

"Even though you knew it was just play-acting?"

"Yeah, OK."

"My bad. I fucked up, Clint. And I'm very sorry."

"It's OK," Clint said, because now, it was. He didn't feel so stupid. Didn't feel like he was over-reacting to something he should have been able to deal with. Maybe he'd tell Phil about the fourth-grade spelling test after all.

"I'll still learn to type if you want me to."

"If you want to learn to type, then you should, it's a useful skill to have. But I can read your handwriting just fine, Clint."

"Really?"

"Really. I learned to read your handwriting in the first three months that we were working together. Believe me, Sitwell's is much worse. And don't even get me started on Deputy-Director Hill's."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"I am not, I'll show you if you like." Phil made to open a filing cabinet.

"No, don't. I believe you. I love you Phil."

"I love you too. I'm sorry I did something that hurt you."

"It's OK. Really. I gotta tell you, though, I'm not looking forward to the ketchup jokes I'm going to be getting from those handlers. It's OK - " he said as Phil started to interrupt. "I'll be fine. I'll deal with it with a wise-ass remark, just like I always do." Clint grinned.

"Have I ever told you why Director Fury calls me 'Cheese'?"

"No, Phil. No, you haven't."

"Well, it all started..."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks always to my excellent editors t! and Shazrolane.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at: [Queen of Wands](http://jmathieson-fic.tumblr.com/)


End file.
